The Hungover Games
by Lala Kate
Summary: A night now hazy brings two people together under circumstances that are not quite ideal.
1. Chapter 1

_This drabble was written per request for a Modern Mary and Charles story. How long it may go, I am still uncertain. But there will be additions. Thanks to Cls2011 and miscreant rose for the proofing, laughter and friendship. _

_I do hope you enjoy. And as always, your feedback is most welcome. :)_

* * *

Her mouth tastes foul, her head rumbling so loudly she cannot bring herself to open her eyes. She buries her face into the pillow, breathing in its scent, savoring its muskiness, drinking in its appeal, reveling in its masculinity.

Masculinity? Her heart stops in a flash. Where the hell was she?

The room spins as she pushes herself up on wobbly arms, and she bites back a curse as a flash of pain sears behind her eye sockets. Just blink, just breathe, she tells herself, and she reopens her eyes slowly, a sense of dread weighing down every muscle.

She is in a bedroom. One she doesn't know.

She checks herself quickly—confused and relieved by the fact that she is fully clothed save her shoes. Everything is fastened properly, even her jewelry has been left intact. The other side of the bed has not been slept in.

What happened here? And where was she?

No other signs of life greet her as she examines her surroundings. This is clearly a man's room—a single man's room—the lack of feminine accouterments almost startling. It is a space of beiges and blacks, modern yet comfortable, and she searches for a picture, for anything, for evidence of who brought her to a place so alarmingly foreign.

There—on the dresser—a photo of an older couple clearly celebrating an anniversary. Little good that does her, so she quickly dons her shoes as she scopes her surroundings further. Cologne, books by Michael Connely and George R. R. Martin, nothing of use in her fruitless quest for answers.

Nothing to ease her sense of overriding panic.

A breath to steady herself, a swallowing down of bile, and she opens the bedroom door, stepping into a small hallway still dim in the early morning. Is that coffee brewing, she wonders, now more fearful than ever that someone may lie in wait. She tosses her purse over her shoulder, ready to use it as a weapon, forcing legs to move forward as she makes her way around the corner.

Her breath halts in her throat.

There—on the couch—a man, the one who must have brought her here, sleeps soundly.

She hears a drip behind her, and quickly turns her head, seeing a coffee maker hard at work with no one nearby. And then she spies it, what must be the front door, and she moves towards it stealthily, biting her bottom lip, hoping to make a clean get-away.

"Would you like some coffee first?"

His voice is lethargic, and she rounds on him quickly, staring into brown eyes still weighted with sleep.

"Who are you?"

He sits up slowly, running hands across the back of his neck.

"I might ask you the same question."

His easy attitude infuriates her as a throbbing in her temples forces her to close her eyes.

"Why did you bring me here?" she demands, determined to refocus, desperate to be in charge.

"You were drunk," he replies smoothly, standing and stretching with ease. "Terribly drunk, to be honest. I couldn't let you drive home, and you passed out cold in my car."

"So you brought me to your place, is that it?" she throws back, wincing at the volume of her own retort. "To take advantage of a woman who couldn't even say yes or no?"

He chuckles to himself, walking past her with a sideways glance as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"If I had ravished you last night, do you think I'd have slept on the sofa in my sweats?"

Somehow what he says is logical, and she hates it. She needs to despise him, to make him responsible for the frightening vulnerability she feels.

"Would you like some coffee?"

Outstretched hands offer her a mug, the scent emanating from it too powerful to resist. She takes it from him without a word, inhaling the steam greedily.

"If you didn't ravish me, then why bother with me at all?" she questions, taking a halting sip. "Why not simply call me a cab?"

"And how was I supposed to know your address without rifling through your purse?"

He rakes fingers through dark hair, giving her a look she cannot quite read.

"I don't make a practice out of going through the personal belongings of strange women or bringing them to my flat," he states curtly. "But I couldn't leave you at the mercy of that one buffoon who was grappling you at the bar. So I gave you a ride."

A hazy image flits through her mind, the memory of meaty hands stroking what they shouldn't suddenly making her cringe.

"You told him I was with you—the other man at the bar."

The words leave her of their own accord, fractured scenes breaking across her memory in murky grays.

"Ah, she remembers," he acclaims, moving to take his coffee from the couch, inviting her to do the same.

"Barely," she admits, staring at him warily before stepping any closer.

"Good God, if I didn't touch you last night when you couldn't have stopped me, I'm certainly not going to try anything when I've just put a steaming mug of coffee in your hand. Give me some credit."

She sits slowly, needing more answers even if they make her feel ashamed.

"I was really that drunk?"

His arched brow answers her wordlessly.

She sighs into her mug, mortified in more ways than one.

"What happened?"

His question hovers between them, finally attracting her gaze.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look like a bar fly, and you're clearly embarrassed by the fact that you were so out of it last night," he observes, eyeing her measuredly. "Which leads me to believe that something clearly upset you yesterday."

"Getting a bit personal, aren't we?" she throws back, quelling a spell of nausea she refuses to acknowledge.

"Well, you did sleep in my bed last night."

The trace of a grin breaks across his face, and she can't help the snicker of air that escapes her nostrils.

"And that gives you the right to pry into my personal affairs?"

He sets his mug on the table, and leans back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"No," he returns, eyes narrowing in her direction. "But it does make me curious."

She fights back the oncoming darkness, the stab in her chest, the hopelessness that shook her to the point of breaking just hours ago.

"My ex-fiancée just got married," she admits, attempting to chase away unwanted demons by airing her pain. "To someone else."

"Yesterday?" he queries, his brow creasing in concern.

"Yes. Yesterday."

He takes her mug from trembling hands, setting on the table next to his, daring to touch her arm.

"I'm sorry."

A hot tear escapes unbidden, and she wipes it away in haste, swallowing back a torrent threatening to break free.

"I knew it was coming," she breathes, her tongue unnaturally thick. "I just never thought…"

A shaky breath rattles from her lungs, her face dropping out of his scrutiny.

"You can't think when it comes to things like this," he offers. "Not reasonably, anyway. Feelings somehow always get in the way."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," she tosses back, eager to move the conversation from her situation to his.

His silence beckons her gaze, and she stares into an expression she somehow clearly understands.

"My wife left me eight months ago," he states, grabbing his coffee for a gulp that has to burn all the way down. "For another man."

"I'm sorry."

"So was I."

His reply catches her off-guard, and she stares at him in curiosity.

"She left me for a rich man," he expounds. "One who could give her the kind of lifestyle I couldn't. I have come to the conclusion that if our marriage meant that little to her, it couldn't have been much of a marriage, now could it?"

"And you're over it? Already?" she questions, quirking her brow in doubt.

"No," he admits with a shrug. "But I will be."

"How can you be certain?" she presses, leaning towards him unconsciously. "That you'll get over it? What if you never do?"

His chuckle surprises her, and he takes another large drink of his coffee, rubbing his lips together in the aftermath.

"Because I've decided I must," he answers, suddenly unable to look away from her. "Why should I hang on to the memory of her if she was more than willing to let go of me?"

Her heart hammers in her ears, and she feels the sudden urge to vomit.

"Oh, God, here," he intervenes, catching her off guard as he lowers her head between her legs. "Just breathe. Don't pass out on me again."

She pushes him away with force, staring into a rather startled expression.

"I'm not about to faint," she argues, breathing in deeply.

"Are you sure?" he pushes back, touching her forehead warily. "You just turned rather green."

"That's because I feel sick," she asserts, drawing another deep breath, watching as he hops up from the couch with a curse. She hears him rummaging for something, and he returns with a bucket, setting it in front of her with an apologetic look.

"Just in case," he states with a shrug.

Something about his expression strikes her as funny, and she begins to laugh, wincing at the discomfort it brings to both her head and stomach.

"What's so funny?" he asks, grinning in spite of himself.

"I have no idea," she muses, her merriment morphing into a groan that prompts him to rub her back.

"Please don't get sick," he pleads as she closes her eyes. "I just had the carpets cleaned last week."

Her body begins to shake again, and they are laughing together. She gulps in air as tension and pain seek a release, the lightness of this ridiculous moment worth more to her than a king's ransom.

"Are you better?" he inquires, leaning in closer, attempting to gauge her complexion. "Do you need some fresh air or anything?"

"I'd kill for a ginger-ale," she replies, catching her breath as steadily as she can.

"Sorry," he replies. "Will Sprite do?"

"Yes," she answers, looking at this man through very different eyes than she had just minutes ago. "A Sprite will do nicely."

"I'll be right back, then."

She listens to him pad back towards the kitchen, her mind twirling to catch up to this turn of events. Ice hits the bottom of a glass, and she feels her body respond physically to the sound of carbonation being poured.

He is back then, offering her the drink, receiving a small smile for his efforts.

"Thank you," she breathes, noting how becoming a smattering of dark stubble is on a clean jaw.

"Don't mention it," he returns, watching her a bit too closely as she swallows. "Just protecting my investment."

"So your motives are strictly monetary, then," she remarks, sipping more with pleasure, reveling at the feel of bubbles on her tongue.

"Strictly," he grins, warming her insides.

"So how do you explain stepping in and taking care of me last night?" she queries, imbibing in another drink.

"You'll get my bill," he retorts, making her grin yet again. "I am outlandishly expensive, I should warn you."

"So I'll have to break into my piggy bank?" she muses.

"Smash it to bits," he states with a shrug. "I have to pay my alimony somehow, now don't I?"

"Wait," she says incredulously. "Your wife left you for a richer man, but you have to pay her alimony?"

"Did I mention the rich man is a divorce lawyer?" he queries, smiling ruefully at the rounding of her eyes.

"No," she answers. "You somehow failed to mention that." She sighs, shaking her head. "Funnily enough, my ex is an attorney, as well."

"Here's to justice," he replies, picking up his mug and offering it up for a toast. She holds out her glass haltingly as they clink them together.

"No—to us," he amends. "May we both be free of those who bind us sooner rather than later."

"Cheers," she whispers, drawing the glass to her lips slowly, watching as he downs what remains of his coffee.

"Shall I make you some breakfast?" he offers, laughing at the grimace that greets him upon the mention of food. "Shall I take that as a 'no'?"

"You certainly should if you want to protect your carpet," she returns, relishing a slight relaxation just under her ribs.

"Then no it is," he agrees, leaning back into the cushions. "I'm Charles, by the way. Charles Blake."

"Mary Crawley," she says, fitting his name to his face, deciding it suits. "I suppose I should call for a cab."

"If you like," he muses. "But I'm happy to give you a ride if you're willing to wait a few minutes. I'm heading out for a jog at the park before it gets too hot."

"Too hot?" she asks. "It's only March."

"What can I say?" he quips. "I like the cold when it comes to running."

"Ugh," she retorts with a shiver, eliciting a hearty chuckle from her unexpected companion. "Give me the heat any day."

A silence descends as one pair of eyes dances around the other.

"So which is it?" he finally asks, pressing his lips together. "A cab or a wait?"

"I can wait, I suppose," she replies, not quite ready to leave this unlikely sanctuary. "And finish my Sprite and coffee."

"The breakfast of champions," he quips, standing slowly. He looks at her meaningfully, dropping his gaze momentarily to his feet. "Take as long as you need."

"Don't tempt me," she muses, knowing what memories await her at home. "I might take over your bedroom again and bar the door."

A look of pained camaraderie meets her head-on.

"You don't have to bar the door," he states simply. "If you need the time and space, take it. You can rest while I run, if you like."

It strikes her as odd how tempting his offer actually is.

He turns, moving towards his bedroom, brushing fingers through thick hair, giving her time and space to answer. And she leans back into the cushions, allowing her stomach to settle, wondering just what she will tell him when he comes back.


	2. Chapter 2

_I was blown-away by the overwhelming support the first installment of this story received, so I do hope you enjoy the second. Writing these two in this modern setting is a new compulsion, and one I am enjoying immensely. Thank you for your reviews, private messages, and notes on tumblr. They were all read and cherished by this thankful writer._

_To my partners in crime, miscreant rose and Cls2011, I send huge hugs and heaps of gratitude. To odiinsons, who prompted me to write this tale, I thank you for planting as seed that has sprouted into this. To KP, my dear, dear friend, thank you again for your constant support and great chats. To ladonnaingenua who offered fantastic edits/feedback, I thank you, dear one. _

_Downton Abbey and its characters are the property of Julian Fellowes, and I thank him for the privilege of being able to play with such incredible characters by picking them up, changing their clothes, and dropping them into new settings and scenarios. With that, I shall leave you to Chapter 2._

* * *

What in God's name had she been thinking?

Mary shakes her head at her own decision, trying to convince herself to simply pick up the phone and call a cab. What had possessed her to sit around a foreign apartment, nursing another cup of coffee on a sofa all too comfortable?

She skirts around the answer, knowing it won't do her any credit.

Yet she continues to sit, to sip her drink, to nuzzle into softened black leather that molds to her shape like a glove. It smells like his bed, she realizes—musky, earthy with a hint of spice that tickles something inside she would rather not identify. Warmth spreads through her like spiked cider, the smell of him more intoxicating than she should allow it to be. How tempting it is to trade in her hurt for a reckless dalliance with dark eyes, to numb her wounds in the arms of one she could simply refuse to let in.

A distraction, she tells herself. He would be nothing more than a temporary distraction.

But distractions can get out of hand, complicated, and her life is messy enough as it is. Wounds are still too raw to consider someone else, especially a stranger who lugged her into his flat just hours prior.

A stranger named Charles Blake.

Murky images of her time in the bar push on eye sockets still tender, and she remembers him staring down a faceless man she is certain had been taller than he. Why take such a risk, she wonders, for her—a woman he didn't know? God, he could have easily ended up with a broken nose, a blackened eye, and for what? To protect her honor when she had tossed what dignity she had left aside with an abandon that made her ill?

She pushes thoughts of yesterday aside with force, not recognizing herself in actions borne out of hot desperation. Had she really gone to his town home? On the day of his wedding?

Had she actually begged him to reconsider?

Her head swells at the thoughts of him, the man she always assumed would be hers, the one she was supposed to have married. Her stomach cramps as his face clarifies, the stupor on his features as she confessed her feelings cutting her with clean precision. He had moved on, had found someone who had made him happy, he told her. He wanted the same thing for her, and truly hoped she could find a man to love her in the manner that she deserved.

She remembers how the muscles in her face twitched as she fought to hold them steady, how her feet went numb as breathing became a conscious act of will. The trickle of hope she had harbored dried up at that moment, and she had backed away without a word, empty to the point of pain, cold in places she never knew existed.

Dear God, she is going to be sick.

She grabs the bucket Charles left her, dry heaving into its confines until her ribs are sore. Breath comes in snatches, then gulps, and she wipes away tears falling for more than one reason. Damn. She didn't want to do this.

Cries turn to sobs, and she drops the pail, clutching a pillow to her chest in lieu of arms to hold her. How empty her life has become, how bland her existence. Why had she ever given a man such power over her happiness?

She promises herself she will not make the same mistake again.

Her nose is running, her cheeks blotchy, and she stands to locate some tissue, trying to find her way around a place still unknown. The mess of her life is reflected in the state of her face, and she gazes into the eyes of a woman she no longer wants to be.

Where has she gone, the girl who relished a challenged, who loved a good argument? She has retreated into a shell of her own creation, one she believed to be stronger than reality had proven, its fragile nature rendering her more vulnerable than she had anticipated. Pain has left her limping, disappointment rendering her unsure.

Her legs tremble, fingers chilling as she continues to stare at her own inferiority. This is ridiculous. If he can move on, so can she.

Charles was right. She will get over this man who has left her in such a state. She has decided.

It is time.

The door clicks indicating his return, and she splashes water onto her face quickly, attempting to wipe away evidence of her misery. It is futile, she realizes, nearly laughing at her own absurdity as she remembers the state in which he found her last night. Surely this is preferable to being passed out cold in the car of a stranger.

Although, she observes wryly, she felt no pain when she had been unconscious. There is something to be said for that.

"Mary," Charles summons softly, making her breath catch for reasons unknown. "Are you alright?"

She rounds the corner, plastering a smile on her face as she rakes fingers though unruly hair.

"I'm fine," she lies, swallowing down a vile aftertaste that nearly makes her wretch again.

"No, you're not," he observes, giving her the look of an older brother who has caught her rifling through his things.

"Are you calling me a liar?" she questions, crossing arms in front of her protectively.

"No," he returns. "I'm calling you a bad liar."

Her stomach cinches.

"You're rather sure of yourself, aren't you?" she shoots back, not liking how well he reads her, uncomfortable by the fact that his opinion already matters.

"Hardly," he returns with a shrug. "But you're a mess, whether your pride will allow you to admit it or not. Now why don't you sit down and let me get you something to eat?"

"I don't appreciate being called a mess," she retorts, hating the fact his description is all too accurate.

"Well, you have improved since last night," he states. "I'll give you that."

Hot prickles tease their way up her neck.

"You've never been mistaken for Prince Charming, have you?" she observes, eliciting a deep chuckle that irritates her even further.

"No," he affirms with a grin. "I can't say that they have. I'm too much of a mess, myself." Hands slide into the pockets of his running pants, and he tosses her a look she can't quite interpret. "Now how about that breakfast?"

Her stomach churns, her need for food outweighing everything else.

"Nothing too adventurous," she insists. "I'm not certain I can handle it."

He grins, mussing his own hair in a gesture she somehow finds reassuring.

"I'll stick to scrambled eggs and toast," he assures her. "Unless something else sounds more appealing."

"No," she returns. "Eggs and toast sound fine."

He pads into the small kitchen, picking up the empty coffee post and holding it up in her direction accusatorily. She shrugs, making him shake his head again, only this time he laughs. The sound is infectious, spilling into her rib cage prompting her to giggle in spite of herself. He rinses out the carafe in preparation to brew reinforcements, and she sits on a stool, dangling her empty mug from a long finger in a wordless demand.

"You're not greedy, or anything," he observes, pouring more than the allotted amount of grounds into the basket.

"Horribly," she admits, begrudgingly enjoying the display of teeth that meet her confession. "And self-absorbed, snobbish, and, oh yes—I evidently don't have a heart." She sets down the ceramic cup, twirling her finger around its edge. "At least that's what most people who know me will tell you."

"Well, at least you're not aloof," he states, raising dark brows exaggeratedly in her direction.

"Give me few minutes," she sighs. "I'm certain I can easily conjure up that character trait, as well."

The smell of coffee warms her lungs, somewhat easing the residual ache in her head.

"As long as you stay away from brash, egotistical, and stubborn," he commands, taking a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. "I can't have you intruding on my list of accolades."

"I'm afraid I have the market cornered on stubborn," she muses. Was there no way to make the coffee brew faster?

"Then we could be in serious trouble," he smiles, pulling out a small whisk. "You know what they say about the meeting of two brick walls."

"No," she tosses back. "What do they say?"

He stops mid-stride, holding a small skillet in the air as he ponders.

"You know, I'm not sure," he admits ruefully. "But it can't be good."

She chuckles again, ignoring the half-hearted protest in her temples, staring at his hands as he whips the eggs into a froth.

"I suppose you're right," she expounds. "It might prove to be a complete catastrophe. Although two brick walls could construct quite a fortress, I suppose."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," he admits, the lines of his face creased in thought. "Sounds rather impenetrable."

"Penetration is not always desirable, you know," she observes, realizing her faux pas the moment it slips from her tongue. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"

"It's alright," he laughs, as amused by the blush staining her cheeks as he is by her comment. "We are both adults. At least, I hope we are."

"Sometimes I wonder," she breathes, rubbing her forehead as her past attempts to intrude.

He pours his concoction into the skillet, grabbing a wooden spoon as he studies her with blatant interest.

"Are you referring to me or to yourself?" he inquires, catching her off-guard. "When it comes to being childish."

"Me, of course," she answers promptly. "I'm the one sitting miserably hung-over while you are up getting your exercise and fixing breakfast."

"Signs of maturity, indeed," he returns, rolling his eyes in a gesture that makes her curious. "Believe me—I handled things with no more maturity than you when Freda walked out on me. Rejection is devastating. Anyone who tells you otherwise is not to be trusted."

"So are you to be trusted?"

Her question makes him pause yet again, and for a moment the air between them thickens.

"That's debatable," he returns slowly. "But I won't lie to you."

Her heart thuds against her throat.

"You make everything sound so final," she ponders softly, staring into her empty mug.

"She is engaged to the divorce lawyer," he states flatly. "And your ex is now married to someone else. It is final. The sooner you accept that, the better."

"I have accepted it," she insists as a surge of anger wells up from points unknown. "I just don't like it."

"You're not required to like it," he continues, unfazed by the flash of fire in her eyes. "Just don't let it control you."

"I control my own life, thank you," she huffs, sitting up taller, daring him to challenge her assertion.

"Do you?" he questions as he pops two pieces of bread into the toaster. "Do you really?"

Heat fuels her insides as frustration mixes with embarrassment to form a cocktail she is not yet willing to drink.

"God, you're infuriating," she asserts. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"My mother," he shrugs, taking two plates from a shelf. "Continually. Remind me to add that to my list of endorsements, if you don't mind."

"Don't forget to include pig-headed while you're at it," she throws back.

"I believe that is a synonym for stubborn," he muses. "But it is more colorful. My mother would approve."

Damn-he already adores the spark of ire in her gaze for which he is clearly the designated target. This is not good.

"Somehow I feel the need to console her right now," she observes, both irritated and amused by the smirk he is wearing.

"I'm sure she'd appreciate that," he retorts, scooping eggs onto dishes. "Shall I give you her number?"

"Yes. The sooner the better."

The toaster dings on cue, and he quickly fetches both slices, laying her plate before her in a gesture of truce that smells all too tempting.

"Bribing me with food?" she questions, unwillingly admiring dimples unleashed. "Sorry. The phone call to your mother is now inevitable."

"Perhaps I'll get off with a warning this time," he quips, tossing her a grin before he moves to sit beside her on the accompanying stool. "If she grounds me, I'll never let you hear the end of it."

"You forgot the coffee," she muses, containing a laugh as he rolls his eyes and gets up again.

"Glad to be of service, my lady," he teases, filling her mug just a bit too full as her eyes narrow in his direction.

The eggs are good, better than she will admit, and she devours them, her body absorbing the nourishment at a rate she can feel.

"When did you last eat?" he questions, making her fork pause on its journey to her mouth.

His inquiry hits home, and she searches her mind for an answer.

"Yesterday morning, I think," she admits sheepishly, remembering how unbalanced her stomach had been throughout the day.

"No wonder you were so drunk," he muses. "You had nothing left inside to fortify you."

The stark truth of his observation makes her shiver, and her fork clatters on to her plate.

"God, I'm sorry."

His apology is unexpected, the tenderness in his gaze unsettling at best.

"Here you are grieving, and I am doing nothing but goading you. I deserve to be grounded for this."

His self-reprobation triggers something inside, and she touches his arm unconsciously.

"You've already admitted to not being Prince Charming," she manages, unprepared for this gesture of kindness when her defenses are non-existent.

"I think I'd be lucky to earn the status of toad at the moment," he states, her touch rattling nerves he had prayed would remain forever dormant.

For a moment, she sees it. A cavern of vulnerability and loss just there in tilt of his head, peaking through the twitch of his mouth, shaded in the creases of his eyes.

"At least you haven't been downgraded to ogre," she offers, the texture of her voice commanding his attention as she removes her hand.

"Give me a few minutes," he shrugs. "That seems to be my designated role in life."

"I suppose that would make me the Ice Queen," she muses, her statement greeted by an unanticipated chuckle.

"I thought it was the Snow Queen?" he puts forth. "Or has my knowledge of children's literature failed me?"

"I left snow behind years ago," she asserts. "At least according to the men left frozen in my wake."

"Hmm," he returns. "Perhaps you need an ogre in your life. To serve as a body guard, I mean."

"For me, or for the men I encounter?" she inquires with a half-grin.

"I don't know," he admits. "You tell me."

"So ice doesn't intimidate you?"

"I told you earlier," he reminds her. "I like the cold. It stimulates me."

Her breath catches in her neck.

"How big is your club?" she dares, a sense of halting warmth beginning to skitter down her legs. "I ask strictly for defensive purposes, you understand."

"Strictly," he shoots back, pupils darkening as he picks up his mug. "And it's big enough for the job, I assure you. Even for dealings with an Ice Queen."

She feels heat in places she shouldn't.

"Bold words, indeed," she notes with a raised brow, crossing her legs. "I'm not sure if you're brave or just incredibly foolish,"

"Foolish, brash, and pig-headed," he insists, watching her too closely. "Ogre—remember?"

"And I thought you just needed a shower," she dares, laughing as he nearly spews out his coffee.

He coughs as hot liquid goes down the wrong pipe, and she finally pounds his back, unable to wipe the smile from her face as he stares at her incredulously.

"Do you always attempt to kill men who cook for you?" he questions, daring another small sip to soothe his throat.

"Only the ogres who apply to be my body guard," she shrugs. "A test of loyalty, you understand."

He shakes his head at her, more curious than he should be about what makes this woman tick.

"Perhaps I should build that fortress," he states partially to himself. "For my own protection."

Words meant in jest hit with a force she knows he never intended.

"I did warn you, you know," she reminds him with a tilt of her head. Eyes bat away any visible disturbance, and she takes him in, wondering just what the hell they were playing at.

"That you did," he acknowledges willingly. He then extends his mug towards her, and she raises hers in tandem.

"What are we toasting this time?"

"Being impenetrable," he states, creasing his brow towards hers. "Unless you have something better to offer."

Her hand shakes internally, and she wonders not for the first time exactly what she does have to offer anyone. Her stomach hollows as she stares inside herself.

The answer is too terrifying to consider.

"No," she answers, her voice dropping notably. "Nothing at all, I'm afraid."

Their mugs meet in a wordless contract, eyes locking in an unacknowledged challenge they both feel but immediately push aside.

"You may regret this, you know," she says, dropping her gaze as things are suddenly too personal.

His smirk returns, and he grazes fingers through dark hair, disheveling it further, making him disturbingly attractive.

"I have a feeling we both will," he admits, sealing their bargain with a wink and a sip. "Cheers."

* * *

_Your feedback is most welcome! Have a lovely weekend. :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_I have simply fallen in love with these two. I mean, I have loved Mary and Charles for quite some time, but this AU is sweeping me away now, demanding more of me than I originally intended, taking me places I hadn't thought to go. I hope you will continue the journey with me and these two knuckleheads who can't see past their own noses at this point in the ballgame. They are so much fun to write!_

_As always, my love and thanks to my sisters and partners in all things Bacon Blake, Cls2011 and miscreant rose. I don't know what I would do without you two, and I can't say that enough. To my dear, dear friend KP who encourages and bolsters me on a regular basis...I honestly cannot thank you enough, girl! To every reader out there, no matter what fics of mine you read, I send hugs and gratitude! The fact that you are here puts a big, cheesy smile on my face. :D See! I appreciate you more than you know._

_Own nothing. Love it all. I do hope you enjoy!_

* * *

The sun hits her, moving through an unfortunate crack in the curtains she meant to see to days ago. She buries her face in her pillow, protesting morning's arrival with a grunt of denial. She is not ready for today.

_Coffee, _she thinks, shaking her head at this change in established thought patterns. She always craves tea in her waking moments, its scent and mellow tang a balm to sluggish senses. How has coffee invaded her realm of safety, shoving aside her beverage of choice with an insistence she finds somewhat annoying?

She knows how. It has been happening for the past six mornings, ever since her first encounter with a certain brown-eyed stranger who got under her skin and irritated the hell out of her. One whose bed she found too comfortable and whose company she both craves and avoids.

Damn that Charles Blake.

_He_ is somewhat annoying, more than somewhat, actually, yet her mind continues to circle back to him, to dimples flashed in her direction, to barbs and challenges she can't just ignore. Rebellious thoughts swim around her reluctant rescuer with the persistence of a shark sensing first blood, not understanding what it is about the man that won't let her go. God, she doesn't need this, not now. Not ever.

Damn it all again.

His texts arrive each morning, making her wake up faster than she would like, setting both her teeth and senses on edge. Her replies have been short, curt, biting, even, yet messages keep arriving, leading her down a trail of bread crumbs she follows with an willingness she finds more than a little disturbing.

Her phone vibrates, and she sighs, knowing it's from him, well aware of the fact that she will rise to his bait. Why had she given him her number in the first place? What in God's name had possessed her to do such a stupid, stupid thing?

_Up and about yet, my lady? _

_Wouldn't you like to know, Lord Ogre._

Her lips slide up in anticipation, knowing he will reply within seconds, wondering why she doesn't tell him just to get lost.

_Not really_. _But I thought I should alert you to the fact that it is supposed to be a lovely, sunny day today. I felt it was my sworn duty as an ogre in her Majesty's service to warn the Ice Queen of dangers lurking outside._

Cheeky bastard.

_Don't you have anything better to do than annoy me?_

_Of course. But annoying you is my new favorite pastime._

Feet hit the floor, and she shakes out her hair, biting her lip as she sends her response.

_Then find another hobby, asshole. _

_As you wish, my lady._

She smirks in spite of herself, enjoying the rush of adrenaline that pulls her from her bedroom. He always has to have the last word, never willing to let a statement go unchallenged, sometimes sending her a retort just before she falls into bed when she is too tired to think, wits too dull to reply. She always awakes the next morning ready to spar, contesting his claimed victory from the night before with a spark he feeds upon with gusto. This contest of wills needs to stop, and she will put an end to it she insists to herself yet again. But what a mind-numbing distraction it has become, tugging her relentlessly out of the mire of self-pity into a sparring arena too addictive for her own good.

Soon, she promises herself. She will end this ridiculous association soon.

Feet lead her to the kitchen, and she wishes she had stopped to pull on socks as the shock of uncarpeted flooring prompts her to rest one foot on top of the other. She is still perfecting the art of coffee, pulling her press pot out of hiding after he returned her to her flat that fateful morning, using it faithfully with a begrudging gratitude she will never confess to him. _That_ morning when her defenses hung at her knees, her face too transparent for comfort, her reason too frayed to process.

The morning she awoke in his bed. The morning after the wedding. Her mug trembles in her hands as thoughts of another man show up uninvited.

"Go away," she verbalizes into empty space, tempted to call Charles for reinforcements, forbidding herself to do that very thing.

_Here's my number. Feel free to call or text if you need anything. Truly. I've been there. I know._

How gentle the caress of dark eyes on her face, how real their connection had felt after he had driven her home. A moment of sincerity had exploited her weakness, and she couldn't stop the words that spilled from her lips.

_Thank you. Would you like mine, as well?_

"Idiot," she whispers to herself, rummaging her scalp in the frustrated need to touch something.

_Idiot_, she texts, feeling a wicked satisfaction speed down her legs as she touches the "Send" button.

_You must be feeling particularly generous today. You've already bestowed three titles upon me this morning, and I haven't even had breakfast yet. _

She rolls her eyes both at him and herself, dangling her phone haphazardly, feeling the words under her fingers she has texted to him every day.

_Eggs and toast again, Lord Ogre?_

For some odd reason, it is something she has to know.

_I'm actually feeling more like an English Muffin and a Bloody Mary at the moment. Care to join me?_

God, he has some nerve.

_Idiot. I haven't even showered yet._

_We ogres don't mind a bit of scent lingering about. Besides, I have a shower you can use. In fact, I'm fairly certain you used it once before. Yes…you even left behind evidence._

Her red panties. Damn. She will never hear the end of this.

An odd tingling encircles her chest, toying with areas she refuses to associate with him, blocking out thoughts that could drive her to distraction.

_Once was more than enough, thank you. I much prefer my own._

"Let's just see what he does with that one, Andromeda," she speaks aloud, drawing the attention of her feline companion lounging by the window.

_Of course you do. It probably has an "Arctic" setting._

He has obviously had more than one cup of coffee already. Damn that bloody wit of his.

_Sub-arctic, actually. Lethal to ogres. I'd stay away if I were you._

_You forget we ogres have thick hides. Speaking of which, I'd better keep mine in shape. Time for my run._

She chuckles to herself.

_I knew you'd run scared eventually. All men do after associating with the Ice Queen._

She feels an instant pang that hurts too much, wishing she could take back that text, slamming her phone down on the counter. Why could she never leave well enough alone? Of course he will run away eventually. It is inevitable. She is destined to be alone.

Breakfast and coffee are consumed with a haste that leaves her flat, and she stares at the calendar, swallowing down a sickness that makes her tremble. She can get through this day. She will get through this day. Perhaps Charles has the right idea. A run sounds quite cleansing.

She is out the door within minutes, still shivering through layers applied to fend off the wind's bite. The park is three blocks over, and she jogs lightly, seeking distraction with a gnawing hunger. She breathes in the signs of green awakening, relieved to see it is still too cold out to draw a crowd. Facing anyone is the last thing she wants right now.

Thank God the place is nearly deserted.

Music is queued, and she loses herself in its rhythm, pounding hurt into the pavement, leaving regret two steps behind. Wind whips though hair that has escaped her hat, chilling her neck, prompting her to run faster, prodding her forward, ever forward.

Eyes close on a straight stretch as she tries to blot out his face, blue eyes that have always penetrated too far, lips that left her starving for more then walked away. But he belongs to another now, he has for some time. And she owns her part in his decision, knowing she hesitated too long, despising her reluctance to commit that cost her everything.

_Ice Queen, indeed_.

Even her own thoughts condemn her, giving her no room to escape.

_Don't look back_, she instructs herself repeatedly. It is over. She has survived. That is what matters. That's all that can matter.

A noise grabs her attention, and her eyes fly open in shock, seeing a horse rear up just in front of her. The world spins out of focus, her mouth dry, her limbs frozen. Then she is hit, not by the horse, but by someone, knocked to the grass with a force that just hurts.

"Ow!" she manages as the air is shoved from her lungs, wondering if she actually heard something pop.

"Is she alright?"

It's the rider, she determines, asking about her. She inhales, summoning the energy to answer when—

"She's fine. Just startled and perhaps shaken up a bit. But I'll see to her. No worries."

That voice…it can't be…it's…

Oh, God.

The horse and rider move on, and she is left with just him poised on top of her, pinning her to the grass.

"You are alright, aren't you?"

There is actual concern this time, making her heart swell in tenderness even as it pisses her off.

"And if I'm not?"

Eyes flash each other a challenge, and that blasted smirk returns, battling for dominance with a touch so gentle it makes her ache.

"Then I suppose I would have to carry you home," Charles retorts, much too satisfied with himself for her comfort. "Ogre style."

"Dare I even ask?"

He pulls some leaves from her hair, the feathering of his breath across her cheekbones sending shivers to all the wrong places.

"Over my shoulder," he quips with a grin. "Bottoms up."

She shoves him off of her body—hard.

"In your dreams, ogre," she huffs, allowing him to help her up, wincing as something stabs her in the knee.

"Trust me. I can dream better than that."

Damn those chocolate kiss eyes with lashes practically dripping with sensuality.

"That's good as they'll have to keep you satisfied at night."

A hearty laugh startles her, and she sees him bending over, grinning deliciously from ear to ear.

"God, woman," he returns. "You're still throwing icicles even when you're having difficulty putting pressure on that ankle."

She bites down at his words, pain shooting up her leg as she attempts to prove him wrong.

"It may be ogre-style after all," he quips, his smile fading at her obvious distress. "I'm not certain you can walk very well."

"You wouldn't dare."

The vulnerability staring back at him nearly renders him speechless, but he has to toy with her. It is their means of communicating, a language spoken just by them. One he understands on a level that renders him unsteady.

"Do you really think you can stop me, my lady?"

Her chest rises and falls much too fast to fool anyone.

"Do you really want to try me?"

He can keep up this ruse no longer. Not when she looks like a cornered rabbit with a wounded foot.

"No," he returns softly. "Not under these circumstances. Can you walk at all?"

Her face shifts in surprise, her mind rushing to keep up with this man she can't out pace for the life of her.

"I think so," she returns, crying out as she applies pressure to an angry leg. "But it's my knee, not my ankle that's killing me."

"God, I'm sorry," he attests, moving to her side just under her shoulder. "I tackled you harder than I thought."

"Seeing as you saved me from getting mauled by a horse, I'd say the damage is minimal," she assures him, struck by this show of vulnerability.

"Still," he argues, shaking his head as he leads her forward. "The last thing I want is to cause you more difficulty. And an injured knee…"

Those eyes—God. They look like those of repentant boy afraid of being grounded. An odd tugging sensation hits her squarely in the chest, and she bites her tongue to hold back a barb meant to defend herself.

"Don't worry about it," she states. "Ogres aren't particularly known for their grace in battle."

That pulls a self-depreciating smile from him.

"I'm not particularly known for my grace in anything."

"That doesn't surprise me."

The dent in his cheek tempered by marked guilt in his eyes is far too potent. She must bolster her defenses—immediately.

They begin to hobble towards the park exit, his nearness both a balm and an irritant. His scent hits her again, the one from his bed, the one still attached to a blouse she has yet to wash. She won't tell him she holds it close when thoughts of one she lost attack in the lost hours of morning. She'll never admit that it excites parts of her still needy amidst emotions she desperately tries to rein in.

"My car is close," he assures her, taking on most of her weight as she hops more than walks. "Did you drive or walk here?"

"Jogged," she replies, hissing through her teeth as she bears too much weight.

"Then I'm driving you," he insists, hating the tight set of her jaw that reveals just how uncomfortable she is. "You're barely going to make it up your stairs as it is."

His car is the most welcome sight she has seen in days, and she allows him to assist her inside, exhaling in relief as she sinks into the seat.

"Don't think that this elevates you to Prince Charming level," she clarifies, hearing a deep chuckle just beside her as he revs up the ignition.

"I carry no such delusions of grandeur," he responds. "I'm just trying to reach toad status. Remember?"

"Ahhh," she voices, too late to hold back an audible wince that punches him in the gut.

"Perhaps I should take you to the hospital instead?"

"No," she fires back. "It's just a twisted knee."

"It acts more like a nasty sprain," he argues, casting her a sideways glance.

"And if it is, what will they do for me at the hospital?" she demands. "Wrap it up and demand I keep it elevated? I can do that quite well on my own, thank you."

The set of her brow is firmer than his mattress.

"We may need to ice it," he puts in, turning carefully onto her street.

"Unnecessary," she quips, trying to lighten the mood unsuccessfully. "Don't forget who you're dealing with here."

He puts his vehicle into park, turning to face her with an intensity from which she cannot turn away.

"Trust me," he hums. "I never forget."

It just hurts, every step up, each hop towards her door. He extends his palm wordlessly, and she fiddles in her pocket until she locates her keys, handing them over with a reluctance that makes him shake his head. They make their way to her sofa, and she practically falls into it, scrunching her face at an aftershock of pain she had not anticipated.

"No sudden movements," he instructs, raising his brows into his hairline. He grabs pillows unceremoniously, stacking them until a veritable tower of comfort sits before her.

"I'm hardly Rapunzel, you know," she jokes, breathing in as his touch on her leg catches her off-guard.

"Sorry," he returns, misreading her reaction. She doesn't correct him, pushing back warmth that feels destined for her cheeks. Her shoe is gingerly removed, and he slowly rests her knee on the pillows, lines of worry etched across his face.

"I'd say it's most definitely sprained," he observes, rolling up her leggings with the care of a surgeon, exposing her knee's bloated state. "Perhaps worse. And yes—an ice pack is in order, your majesty. Might I inquire where your stash your supply?"

"In the freezer, like all good frozen monarchs," she retorts, biting her lower lip to stifle a groan.

"Stay," he orders, moving to her kitchen, nearly tripping over her cat.

"Don't worry," she hisses in discomfort. "I am by no means inclined to move."

"I see you've employed another body guard," he quips, kneeling to pet the orange and cream patched feline.

"Andromeda," she informs him, summoning the cat with her fingers until she snuggles in beside her on the sofa.

"Andromeda? Really?"

His stare is almost comical, the ice pack in his grip nearly forgotten.

"And what's wrong with that?" she questions, narrowing her gaze decidedly as she grits her teeth.

"There's nothing wrong with it, per say," he returns with a shrug. "But don't you think it's a bit grand for a cat?"

"You're obviously a dog person."

Her expression casts judgment, her eyes following him warily as he sits on her table across from her, covering her injury with a cold pack that chills her on contact.

"I actually prefer cats," he corrects, surprising her yet again. "But I think they should have practical names."

"Like Fluffy?" she muses sarcastically through teeth beginning to chatter.

"Like Cat," he retorts, locating a nearby blanket and wrapping it around her unceremoniously.

"That's what I like about you, Lord Ogre," she drones. "Your colorful imagination."

He flashes her a smile she can't quite interpret, distracting her by licking his lips.

"You might be surprised."

He stands and looks around the room, rubbing restless hands together.

"I really think you should have that checked by a doctor," he attempts. "It could be worse than a sprain, Mary, and you don't want to mess with an injured knee."

"If it's no better in the morning, I'll go," she relents, squeezing her eyes against painful throbbing.

"Do you have anyone who can stay with you today?"

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she argues.

"Please," he fires back. "You can barely adjust yourself on the couch without flinching. There is no way you can do this on your own."

She exhales through flared nostrils, unwilling to admit he is right, afraid of pushing back too hard.

"I'll manage."

"In other words, no one," he observes, making her shift uncomfortably. "Do you at least have any crutches about?"

"No," she admits, dropping her gaze, her life suddenly feeling very small.

"Well, I do," he replies. "I'll just run over to my flat and fetch them, as well as a bag and my laptop."

"Wait—your laptop?" she questions, stopping him a mere breath from her door. "And a bag?"

"Someone has to take care of you," he shrugs, causing her hands to fidget. "My laptop will allow me to get some work done, and I'll need some things from home if I'm to spend the night on your sofa. Oh, and I do believe I have some decent pain medication left over from when I had two wisdom teeth extracted a few weeks ago."

Her blood races too quickly to her head.

"I don't remember inviting you to spend the night," she huffs, glaring at him incredulously, the promise of pain medication more seductive than it should be.

"That's good," he tosses back with a grin that singes every nerve. "Because I don't remember asking."

* * *

_There are two drabbles I posted this week on tumblr per request that are set in this verse and have to do with the underwear Mary accidentally left behind. Check them out on my blog if you like, and as always, feedback is always appreciated. :) Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!_


	4. Chapter 4

_This Mary and Charles are devouring my brain. _

_There...I said it. They get to me. They make me write. They tease and goad me, they lead me down alleys I hadn't expected, they tell me secrets I never knew._

_If you are reading this tale, let me send you a huge hug and thank you kindly for your support. I am rather amazed at the number of notes I have received about it, all of them very positive. :) (Thank you again!) For those of you who have reviewed-I send extra hugs! Please know how much every review and/or private message means to me!_

_To my two conspirators in Bacon Blake madness, miscreantrose and Cls2011, I cannot possibly express how much I adore you two or how very thankful I am for our friendship and your amazing support! To thefoodofloveismusic who created the most incredible photo to go with this story, I send loads of hugs and coffee chats. :) If you haven't seen her photo on tumblr, you really should check it out. It is on my blog with a link to this chapter. :)_

_I don't own Mary or Charles, you understand, I just enjoy messing with them a bit and allowing them to manipulate my imagination. I hope you enjoy their antics as their tale deepens and progresses, this saga of the Ice Queen and the Ogre. Cheers, and happy Friday!_

* * *

_Is my lady remaining immobile upon her throne like a good little monarch?_

It is the third text he has sent since leaving but half an hour ago to fetch crutches and an overnight bag. She sighs into empty space, begrudgingly touched by his concern.

_Stop annoying me, Lord Ogre, and get on with whatever it is you're doing over there._

_Just packing the necessities, my lady._

He is staying over—Charles Blake—at her flat—a man she barely knows and finds more attractive than she should. A part of her is relieved, another part terrified, and all of her is more than a little miffed he assumed she would agree to his suggestion with a simple cock of his brow and a flash of white teeth.

God, he has some nerve.

And he will be here—with her—alone—all night. An odd cocktail of anticipation and unease speeds across her limbs, making her tingle before she chastises herself for her own foolishness. Her knee is the size of a water balloon. If that isn't a deterrent to unadvisable attraction, she doesn't know what is.

_This little monarch will freeze your nether regions if you dare disturb her rest again, Lord Ogre. I suggest you sever this line of communication immediately._

A small smile turns into a grimace as she adjusts her position, her injured knee throbbing in spite of her ice pack.

_With all due respect, your majesty, there are areas of an ogre even an Ice Queen is powerless to freeze._

If he only knew.

_Try me._

She realizes too late what her response implies. What the hell was she thinking? She holds her breath, anticipating his comeback, wondering how far he will dare to press this exchange.

_Sounds like a rather slippery business to me. I shall employ my largest ice pick to make certain I am up to the task._

Her mind strays where it shouldn't, making her all too aware of her own body.

_And if you should start an avalanche, Lord Ogre?_

Her face warms decidedly. God—what is she playing at encouraging this line of conversation?

_Then I shall find myself buried to the hilt, I suppose. _

Damn.

_Watch your step, Lord Ogre. Approaching an Ice Queen inevitably leads to a downfall of great magnitude._

_Then it's a good thing that this ogre is well-equipped for the job. _

She laughs into emptiness, silenced by an unexpected stab of pain that squeezes her eyes shut. It pulses and pierces, and she shifts slightly again, moving her leg in a delicate attempt to appease its anger. She breathes in and out until the worst subsides, allowing her torso to ease back into the cushions one muscle at a time.

She wills herself to breathe in evenly, exhaling in an unvoiced tempo. There—that's better. That's better.

_Braggarts rarely live up to their own accolades, you know. I haven't met a man yet who is as well-equipped as he claims to be._

Her knee seizes yet again, making her double over, panting desperately for relief. She counts to ten, numbering each breath, despising the fact that she is in such a vulnerable position.

It is then she remembers why she fled to the park in the first place, the park where her knee was injured—the park where Charles had actually saved her from a far worse injury.

Today is his birthday—Matthew's birthday. Her head begins to pound in time with her knee. One wound is more than enough.

She has called Matthew faithfully on this date over the years, even before they started dating, crooning a ridiculous dirge rather than the traditional birthday song, teasing him relentlessly about being older than she. But today, today he is on his honeymoon, with his new wife. There will be no more birthday phone calls, no more silly dirges, no more good-natured admonishments that he didn't deserve such teasing, especially from her.

She feels something precious wither up inside, something she still isn't certain she can live without, as if a part of her spirit has been severed away. But she has to go on—there is no choice in the matter.

Thank God Charles is bringing that pain medication. Thank God she won't be alone tonight.

Her phone vibrates, but she can't look just yet, needing her wits about her when she takes up his gauntlet, wanting a sharpness of mind lost in the burrows of pain. Jagged angles wane into dull throbs, and she closes her eyes yet again, purposely relaxing her limbs in an attempt to wade this out.

She can handle this. She has to handle this.

It vibrates again, and she stares at the screen, knowing Charles may be getting worried, wanting to salvage what remains of her pride. She stares at the screen, viewing both messages at once.

_Your observations are true about mere braggarts. But you should know that ogres always live up to their claims. _

And then the second:

_Are you alright? You didn't throw a knife at me for that remark, and that has me concerned. You haven't moved off of your perch, have you?_

Her heart pounds a bit too loudly for comfort.

_Don't be so dramatic, you presumptuous idiot. Just because I don't bite every time you beckon doesn't mean anything is wrong._

Why she just can't offer him a simple thank you is beyond her at the moment.

_There's my Icy Monarch. If you're doing that well, I may shower while I'm home._

_Take a bloody bath, for all I care. Staying over is all your idea, anyway._

She bites her lip as a wave of nausea hits her out of nowhere.

_Which is why it is ingenious, my lady. _

She drops her phone on the table, fearing she is about to be sick. Her head falls into her hands, her arms shaking as a cold sweat peals across her upper lip and forehead.

She has to get to her toilet immediately.

The very act of trying to stand nearly makes her vomit on the spot, and she makes it up on one shaky leg, praying she can actually hop to her final destination. The loo seems light years away, and she now wishes she had asked Charles to come back immediately.

What in God's name had possessed her to tell him to take his time?

_Just one step at a time, _she instructs herself, fighting down dual urges to both cry and heave. She can do this—she must do this.

The first hop is terrifying. The second make her wince all over. The third knocks her flat.

She hits the floor with a thud, crying out audibly as a crippling pain shoots up her leg. Teeth bite into her lip, drawing blood as tears flow stubbornly down her cheek. She tastes bile pulsing up her throat, and she pushes herself backwards with her arms, scooting towards the toilet with the speed of a wounded turtle.

Her stomach makes her pause, and she is certain she is going to become ill all over herself. She concentrates on breathing, on holding whatever wants to come out inside, on scooting herself slightly closer to her goal.

That's when her phone vibrates again.

It is out of her reach, and she cannot go back, not when each centimeter is a struggle, each movement a hard-earned victory.

She hears it again. He is getting concerned. She is both thrilled and mortified at the prospect of his imminent return, knowing she needs him, hating the notion of him finding her in such a state.

"Move," she instructs herself audibly, grunting with each push as tired arms begin to tremble.

She backs into the loo, feeling cool tile under palms, breathing a silent prayer of thanks that she made it this far. Her fingers grab cold porcelain, and she tugs herself closer, leaning her face over the rim as best she can when sitting on her knees is not an option.

She made it…just in time. And that's when it all goes to hell.

* * *

Mary is not replying.

Something is wrong, he knows it as well as he knows his own name. Charles stares at his phone, willing a text from her to appear on his screen, waiting for whatever insult she will hurl at him next.

But it doesn't come.

He curses under his breath, tugging his discarded shirt back over his head before sliding back into his shoes. His shower will have to wait until later. She needs him—he is certain of it. God only knows what sort of idiotic maneuver she attempted as soon as he walked out the door and left her to her own devices. Why does she feel such a need to prove herself to him, to make certain he doesn't think her weak or even the slightest bit vulnerable? Never mind that those attributes could be used to describe himself perfectly. He just hopes that she hasn't injured herself further.

That damned stubborn streak of hers.

He chuckles at the irony of it. She is the one person who can challenge him on this front, and he's rushing to her aid, understanding she may not respond well to his sudden appearance even as he pulls his door shut. Well, that's just too damned bad. He's not going to let her wallow in self-pity or suffer further injury on his watch. No—not on his watch.

How the hell did he come to feel so responsible for a woman he has known a mere week? God, he's losing his bloody mind. But she still isn't replying.

Damn.

He is in his car within seconds, speeding towards her flat, wondering just what he will do if she is simply ignoring him. It is possible, he knows, she who describes herself as an Ice Queen and claims to devour men. But he recognizes bravado when he sees it, and he can't quite get over the nagging sensation that there is much more to this woman than she shows to the world.

It still doesn't explain why he has become so attached to their conversations or has appointed himself her impromptu guardian. Chocolate eyes and velvet lips may have something to do with it, as could porcelain skin and a sharpened wit that keeps him on his toes. He has never felt so challenged by a woman, a fact which both intrigues and attracts him much more than it should.

This odd attachment is probably not a good idea for either of them. But God, he is attracted. _Too _attracted.

He leaps out of his car, sprinting up her stairs with crutches in his hand—trying to catch his breath as he knocks with force.

"Mary!"

He pounds on the door repeatedly, hearing nothing in return, cursing himself for not insisting upon a key before he realizes he never locked the door in the first place. He tries the handle, both relieved and terrified when he feels it give beneath his touch.

If something has happened to her…

"Mary! Are you alright?"

He bursts into the flat, panting audibly, half-panicked to see she is not on the sofa.

"Mary!"

"I'm in here."

The voice is weak but steady, and he rushes towards the sound, his relief at seeing her unharmed tempered by her appearance. She is half-lying on the floor next to her toilet, her complexion paler than usual, her eyes red and puffy.

"God," he breathes, rushing to her side and dropping to the floor beside her. "Are you alright?"

She refuses to look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on her shoes, rubbing her forehead in a slow, circular motion.

"I've been better, thank you," she manages, attempting to steady her voice, despising that it's a nearly impossible feat.

"I'll get you some water and a cool cloth," he insists, dashing off to the kitchen with lightning speed. He returns nearly as quickly as he left, laying the cloth on her forehead, pressing the glass into her hand.

"Drink," he insists, noticing the tremor in her hands as she obeys without question. The fact that she hasn't the will to argue concerns him further.

"Has your stomach recovered yet?"

His question finally draws her gaze.

"I think so," she answers, pushing herself up on wobbly arms, resting her back against the wall. "But I can't swear to it."

"That's very wise," he returns softly. "It's been my experience that whenever I've sworn upon anything, fate sets out to prove me wrong."

He sees her mouth twitch.

"What's so amusing?" he questions, watching her lick her lips deliberately.

"Nothing," she answers. "It's just that I would assume you were used to being proven wrong by now."

"There's the dagger buried in my chest," he quips, his voice still gentle as he dares to touch her arm. "I knew you couldn't keep it hidden for too long."

"I should hate to disappoint my chief ogre," she voices, her tone still gravelly and weak.

"This ogre deserves a lashing for leaving you as I did."

She stares at him earnestly, and he sees something new there, something deceptively fragile fortified with steel.

"No, you don't," she responds. "You don't have to be here with me at all, Charles."

His heart does an odd somersault.

"Of course I do," he tosses back, unsure of what to do about a sudden unsteadiness seeping into his veins. "I'm the one who knocked you flat in the first place, remember?"

"Ah, that's right," she half-grins, her eyes still partially-drugged. "Remind me to see to that flogging when I'm quite recovered. I want to do it properly."

"As you wish, my lady," he breathes, his eyes dropping to the floor, his hand still on her arm. "Shall we get you to bed now? You need some rest."

"I can't," she protests feebly, staring down at her soiled top in disgust. "I need a shower. I'm filthy."

"I can fetch you a clean shirt for now," he offers. "And you can clean up after a nap. I daresay you need one badly."

She swallows audibly, daring another sip of water, hiding her eyes from him again.

"I'm sorry you have to see me this way," she states, her unease spanning the short distance between them.

"I've seen you worse, actually. Remember?"

That remarkably instigates a grin, and she shakes her head.

"I must have been in a dreadful state if it was worse than being covered in vomit."

"I wouldn't say, _covered_," he corrects, tilting his head. "Perhaps _crusted _would be a more appropriate choice."

"Ugh," she grimaces, making him worry she is about to become ill again. "Why does that sound even worse?"

"No doubt because it came out of my mouth," he answers with a flash of his brows.

He hears her exhale, her direct gaze boring under his skin.

"I'm certainly adept at making an impression, it would seem."

The truth of her assertion nearly causes him to stumble over his own thoughts.

"You have no idea," he replies, scooting in closer in spite of his better judgment.

She stares at him hard.

"Why are you even here, Charles?"

The question cuts through marrow and bone, punching him squarely between the ribs as realization he is not ready to handle begins to settle in.

"Annoying you has given my life a renewed purpose," he grins, brushing aside thoughts that press in too close, watching her smirk at his answer. "I was in need of a productive hobby, and you kindly provided me with one."

"Did your mother ever drop you on your head?" she shoots back, making him laugh audibly.

"Only once or twice," he retorts with a shrug. "She thought it might improve my disposition."

"If this is an improvement, you must have been born an orc," she replies, closing her eyes as her knee cramps yet again.

"Urukai, actually," he tosses back, allowing her to squeeze his hand as her body contorts and clinches. "I've come further than you think. Perhaps I'll make toad status yet."

She grits her teeth, leaning into him as he lays his hand on her back.

"That's it, Mary," he instructs softly into her ear. "Breathe your way through it. It will pass. I promise."

Sweat breaks out across her neck and forehead, and she allows him to pull her in closer, to support her, to inhale and exhale in time with her until she finally leans her head back against the wall.

"Thank you," she whispers, giving him an odd look, one that makes him uncomfortable in all the wrong places.

"Don't thank me," he insists. "I'm the one who caused this injury, remember?"

"Ah, yes," she manages, speaking with less conviction that she has in the past. "What else can I expect from an ogre?"

Her eyes pin him squarely to his spot.

"How about transportation to your bedroom," he puts forth, moving up on to his haunches to break whatever spell she is unknowingly casting. "I'm certain you're ready to get off of this floor. Can you wrap your arms around my neck?"

"Does this approach towards women actually work for you?" she returns, wincing as his arms move under her knee.

"Only with partially-crippled Ice Queens," he quips, heaving her off the floor and moving towards what he assumes is her room. The feel of her against him opens a chasm he had sealed off, and he ignores the smell of recent illness, breathing in the soft lavender of her hair, wishing he could take away her pain.

He could easily get lost in this woman. And that's something he cannot risk again.

He deposits her gently on the edge of the bed, helping her adjust her body into a position that will allow her to change, cramming unsteady hands into pockets as he puts on his best face.

"Where can I find a replacement?" he questions, following her pointed finger to a tall chest of drawers.

"Second drawer down," she instructs, biting her lower lip as he rummages through her things.

"A Bon Jovi t-shirt?" he observes, watching her shrug in response.

"Does that surprise you?"

"Somewhat," he answers, pilfering through other tops. "I would have pegged you as more of a smooth jazz kind of girl."

"I'm full of surprises," she retaliates, giving him a look he can't quite read. "You should know that by now."

"Speaking of surprises, how about this one?"

He cannot help but smile as he holds it up for her approval, watching her roll her eyes in his direction.

"You would choose Mickey Mouse," she observes flatly.

"There's something deliciously ironic about seeing the self-proclaimed Ice Queen being adorned in mouse-ears," he returns smoothly with a wink.

"Try to contain your excitement at the prospect," she quips, shifting slowly. "It doesn't become you at all. And hand me the damned shirt, for God's sake."

"As you command," he drawls, tossing the shirt to her before moving towards the door. "Yell at me when you've changed."

"How kind of you to grant me permission," she tosses back tartly.

"Kindness is my middle name," he asserts, making his exit before she can formulate a reply.

Pent-up air is released as he shuts the door behind him, and he runs a hand across his scalp, seeking answers from a well of confusion. What is he playing at here? And why does he continue to circle around this woman as a moth does a flame, he who was nearly charred to a crisp only months ago?

He who knows better.

The last time he let a woman get too close, he married her, and God knows how disastrous that turned out. He is better off keeping Mary at arms-length, regardless of how gorgeous she is, no matter how her wit lights up something inside him that has been dormant for too long. Letting this get out of hand is not a good idea…it's a horrible one, in fact.

But she is quickly becoming an addiction, a delicious compulsion he knows he will not give up easily.

"Idiot," he chastises himself, biting his lower lip as he turns his gaze back to her bedroom door. "You're a bloody idiot, Blake."

He shakes his head at his own folly, locating a banana on the counter, searching for a napkin when he hears her call his name. His body's response to the mere sound of her voice gives him a moment's pause.

_Get it together, man_, he instructs himself, knowing his admonition is falling on deaf ears. Damn—this is not going to be easy.

She just might prove to be his personal downfall.

"Yes, that is much better," he muses with forced ease as he enters her room, unable to keep from grinning at the picture she makes. "Disney suits you well."

"Perhaps you can hand me my magic mirror," she retorts, flicking her brow in a mock warning.

"Along with your poisoned apple?" he inquires. "Don't worry. You're still the fairest of them all, even with a swollen knee."

"And with a smiling rodent on my chest," she muses as he helps her maneuver under bed sheets. "Now I know you're toying with me." He props her knee upon a stack of pillows, handing her the banana before fetching her water glass from the loo. "Watch out, Lord Ogre, or I'll demand your heart be delivered to me in a box."

"Don't tell me you keep a huntsman hidden around here," he quips in an attempt to quell a well-aimed dart.

"Huntsmen, orcs and ogres," she states. "A girl can never be too prepared."

"And not a prince in the lot," he notes, trying to keep conversation at a safe level. "Rather unusual for a queen."

"Princes can't be trusted."

Her tone bites, her eyes daring him to venture any closer.

"They're the ones who hand you your heart in a box, you know," she continues, her edges softening imperceptibly. "Huntsmen are actually harmless."

Pain of another kind glares from lines of her face, lines he resists caressing to ease their burden.

"And ogres?" he dares, watching her eyes refocus. "Are we harmless as well?"

"Hardly," she voices, looking more vulnerable than he has ever seen her, stealing his retort before it ever reaches his lips. "Ogres are unpredictable."

Palms begin to sweat as his pulse pounds against his neck.

"How so?"

He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth.

"They appear so untouchable and boorish, at first," she confesses, her eyes flitting from restless hands to his face. "But they have a gentle side, a loyal side." She pauses to clear her throat and adjust her features. "When they're not being arrogant assholes, that is."

He releases a breath had hadn't realized he was holding.

"Just to clarify," he returns with a nod.

"Just to clarify," she echoes before her face scrunches tightly yet again.

"I thought you might like something for the pain," he offers, producing a pill bottle from his pocket. "But you must eat the banana first. There's no way I'm allowing you to take one of these on an empty stomach."

She nods weakly, accepting the banana without a word.

"Alright. I'll manage."

The fight is seeping out of her—he sees it in how she drops back onto the pillows and wrestles with weighted eyelids. He waits quietly until she finishes eating, helping her steady the water glass in her reclined position, watching her settle in for a rest.

"I'll be just out here," he assures her, unable to take his eyes from her as she grants him a weary smile. "In case you need…anything."

She won't allow herself to need him, he understands. Wounds are still too raw, her pride still lies in shambles, and she is just that stubborn. He shouldn't allow himself to form a need for her, but weaknesses usually evolve into needs.

And she is already a weakness.

"Try not to make a mess," she breathes as her eyes drift shut. "Andromeda wouldn't like it if you did."

"Me—antagonize Andromeda?" he whispers, gazing at her a moment too long. "Perish the thought."

A hum of acknowledgment resonates from her chest, her brows tossing him an unspoken touché as he slides from her room. He stands motionless, staring at walls, rubbing his jaw, taking emotional inventory. He is in danger of drowning in a whirlpool of quicksand, one that titillates and teases as it devours him, one from which he has no will to escape.

"Idiot," he whispers yet again, staring hard at the blasted cat before reluctantly retrieving his laptop and forcing himself to get down to work.


End file.
